


Ashes, Ashes

by Laora



Category: Gundam 00
Genre: Gen, spoilers through 2x3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-09-01 20:37:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8637262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laora/pseuds/Laora
Summary: It's Lockon—except it's not, and after four years as a prisoner of war, Allelujah cannot understand why this stranger with his friend's face is on the Ptolemy.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by sir-neep-scooter over on Tumblr; encouraged by half of the tiny fandom. (Three-month-late) birthday fic for sapphireswimming! OTL go me

He is alive, and he is free, and this is more than Allelujah has thought he would ever have again.

It is a miracle, to move his arms freely about his person without restraint; it is a gift, to down the water bottle in Arios at his own pace and taste the beautifully clear, cold liquid as it slides down his throat. The cockpit feels like a home after four years of nothing but grime and darkness, and he stretches his legs out as far as they will go as they retreat from the battlefield, from that awful, damned place that he wishes never to see again.

The euphoria is all-encompassing and complete but so is the bone-deep exhaustion. But then Feldt— _ Feldt,  _ who he has thought dead for these four years along with Setsuna and Tieria and all the rest—opens a comm link, telling him that the docking sequence has changed, that she’ll guide Arios to its hangar until he can learn to do it himself. “That’s fine,” he says, trying for a smile that pulls on his bruised face and spikes the ever-present headache behind his eyes—but she smiles back all the brighter, nodding to him before cutting the link.

She looks— _ older, _ and he realizes that this is to be expected, when he has been gone for four years and she has turned from a teenager into a woman. He could not see Setsuna well, in the darkened prison, but he had been taller than he once was, too, and his voice had sounded deeper. Allelujah himself is twenty-four now (perhaps twenty-five, for he is not yet sure of the exact date); four years of his life were lost and destroyed in the depths of the government’s terrible prison.

He knows he shouldn’t focus on this but it is  _ hard, _ when he’s still half-sure this is all a hallucination. He has had many, after the dozens of surgeries they’ve put him through, and he’s still expecting to suddenly wake in his chair and his jacket. But, after all, those hallucinations have never been so vivid, or so long—and he allows himself to hope, for the moment, that this is real.

Arios follows Setsuna’s Gundam into a new Ptolemy, and Allelujah allows himself to look around with his swimming, blurry vision at the hangar. It looks similar enough to the old one, he decides after a moment, if shinier and newer and slightly more spacious. He feels himself relaxing at the familiarity as he opens the cockpit, climbing out of it and ignoring his too-tight, burning muscles as he attempts to get his balance, standing when he has not for over four years.

“Allelujah!” That’s Ian’s voice, full of relief and cheer, and he turns, a genuine smile growing on his face. Ian hasn’t changed, but for the sharp uniform he now wears—he’s ever grumpy, and maybe he has a few more lines, a few more grey hairs than he once did, but he looks  _ just _ the same—and Allelujah finds this more comforting than he should. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” he says; even if it’s not true, he thinks it’s what his friends want to hear, right now (as Setsuna exits his Gundam, hurrying their way). “Um—“

“It’s great to see you,” Ian says suddenly, his voice gruff as he reaches for him—and Allelujah hides a flinch as he’s pulled into a crushing hug. He returns it tentatively after a moment, blinking at Setsuna, over Ian’s shoulder—who, unless he has changed drastically, will  _ not _ go in for a hug of his own once Ian releases him. “I’m glad we were able to get you out of there.”

“Me too,” Allelujah says honestly as Ian finally lets him go, a crooked smile on his weathered face. “Is—everyone still here?”

Ian’s smile dims a bit, at that, and Allelujah realizes the answer even before he responds. “For the most part,” he says with a bit of a nod, “but…Joyce, Chris, and Lichty—they didn’t make it off the old Ptolemy.”

Allelujah grimaces, looks away for a moment. Four members of their small crew, then, were killed in the battle; he should have expected it, after all of the footage the military gleefully showed him of the bloodbath, but…it hurts, more than he’s expecting it to.

“Sumeragi’ll want to talk to you,” Ian says after a moment, reaching to clap at his shoulder but freezing when Allelujah shies away at the sudden movement. “But—if you’d rather clean up, grab lunch, sleep…I’m sure she’ll wait.”

Allelujah glances over as Tieria approaches as well, from the other side of the hangar. He looks exactly the same as he ever has: that same severe haircut, the same face, even if its features are more relieved than Allelujah has ever seen them. “Can I—get something to eat?” he asks. “I can go to the bridge after, but…” He trails off, a bit embarrassed, a bit wary of putting his own desires before their commander’s needs when Tieria is standing right in front of him. But Ian nods immediately, gesturing for him to follow him down the hangar’s scaffolding.

“I’ll run and let them know you’re all right,” he says, and Allelujah nods his thanks. “Tieria, Setsuna, you mind showing him to the mess?”

“Of course,” Tieria says instantly, falling into step beside Allelujah. “Setsuna, you have someone else to show around the ship, correct?”

Allelujah blinks, looks over at him—but Setsuna only nods sharply, staring at Allelujah a moment longer with something like relief behind his eyes. Then, he doubles back to his Gundam and helps someone out of the cockpit, though Allelujah is at the wrong angle to see anything but long, black hair. He wants to know who this is but decides such questions can wait for later, when his vision has stopped spinning, when he’s able to get something for his splitting head…when his stomach isn’t cramping, when his knees have stopped trembling at the thought of carrying his weight.

Tieria’s frown only grows deeper as they walk through the ship, and he glances over to him every few seconds though he says nothing out loud. Allelujah is grateful that this much has not changed, at least, though he’s not sure whether Tieria is simply waiting to tear into him until they’re in a private setting. After all, he was ever disapproving of him, four years ago—and surely, he sees his capture as the ultimate failure of a Gundam Meister.

This does not quite line up with the expression on his comrade’s face, but Allelujah does not think on it too much, right now. He focuses only on making it to the mess hall before he collapses, and tries not to think of the disapproval surely on the tip of Tieria’s tongue, ready to lash out at the slightest mis-step.

But the silence only stretches longer, and as he slows down—his aching muscles and spinning head forcing a slower pace than Tieria’s regular brisk walk—his friend slows to match him without a word of complaint. Allelujah is determined not to falter in his gait, though, and is proud of himself for not allowing his knees to buckle until he reaches a bench in the mess hall. He leans forward over his knees, trying to hide how heavily he’s breathing after such a short walk. A Gundam Meister should be strong, fit, and always ready for a fight—but right now he feels anything but, and he desperately tries to pull himself together, tries to appear strong, because Tieria will never stand to see such weakness, and—

“Allelujah,” Tieria says from right in front of him, and he jumps terribly, looking up with wide eyes. Tieria’s eyebrows have risen fractionally on his forehead as he holds out a meal. “It’s the only thing we have right now, but dinner is only four hours away. You can eat then, as well.”

“Thank you,” Allelujah says, accepting the shrink-wrapped plastic and tearing it open, nearly forgetting to use the utensils in his haste to get food down his throat. Four years of IV-fed nutrients; four years of water forced down his throat twice a day; four years of  _ not eating _ have lowered his inhibitions, evidently, because the food is gone in under a minute, and Allelujah has to keep himself from licking the plastic. He glances up, embarrassed, but Tieria is across the room, his back to him as he busies himself at the stove. 

He’s relieved, and considers getting up to throw the waste in the recycler before deciding not to chance it, only setting it quietly on the bench beside him. He blinks around the room rather owlishly, still trying to will his eyes to focus—avoiding eye contact with Tieria when he turns, staring at Allelujah with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Do you need anything else?” Tieria asks after a moment, and Allelujah glances to him with wide eyes before turning back to his knees.

“A shower,” he concedes, because he’s sure the stench is awful to people not accustomed to it, “and—a change of clothes, if you have one.”

Tieria and Setsuna are wearing their flight suits, of course, but Ian and Feldt wore clothes similar enough for him to realize that they’ve begun wearing a uniform. And he feels disgusting, confined,  _ claustrophobic _ in this awful jumpsuit—he reaches up to unzip the front, pulling it down to his waist. If he were alone, he’d strip it off entirely, but as it stands, he only sits awkwardly on his bench as Tieria looks on.

“There are uniforms in your cabin,” Tieria says after a moment, and Allelujah blinks and looks up. “I can show you where it is—but we designed the interior of this ship after the old Ptolemy. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding your way.”

But—they have a  _ cabin _ for him, and  _ uniforms, _ and Allelujah cannot quite process this, that they—“You were planning to rescue me?” he asks after a moment, and Tieria frowns at him. “How did you even know I was still alive?”

“We didn’t,” Tieria says honestly, and Allelujah stares. “But after everything that happened, when we ordered the uniforms, we allowed ourselves to hope for this much. We received Wang Liu Mei’s information less than two days ago; as soon as we knew where you were, we were working on freeing you.”

Allelujah blinks several times in quick succession, unsure of how to answer this, and only eventually looks down to his knees again. “We’re all very glad you’re still alive,” Tieria says, some emotion behind his voice that Allelujah has never heard there before—something kind, something he might expect from Sumeragi or—or Lockon, but certainly not Tieria. He opens his mouth to question it, but the faint sound of air from behind Tieria has grown into a shrill whistle that sends Allelujah’s heart racing. Tieria turns to tend to what appears to be a tea kettle, and Allelujah attempts to get his breathing under control for these few precious seconds of privacy. 

“But,” Tieria says after several seconds of silence, glancing over his shoulder before picking up two mugs and walking toward him, “I can’t help but wonder  _ why _ that’s the case.”

Allelujah freezes—wondering whether Tieria, at last, will question his strength and abilities, whether this was all some strange attempt to soften the blow. He accepts the mug with trembling fingers, not wishing to antagonize him further, and sniffs at the tea tentatively. It still needs time to steep, of course, but it’s a pleasant smell—one of the blends he always enjoyed when he got the chance, four years ago. He wonders suddenly whether this was luck, or whether Tieria somehow remembered his tea preferences.

Considering where this conversation is going, he realizes it must be the former—and steels himself for further questions as Tieria stares down at him. “Why was the Federation holding you?” he asks, and though his tone is not accusatory, Allelujah feels cold terror slicing through his gut like a knife. “The super soldier data—“

The door slides open to his right, and Allelujah turns on reflex, both to get a reprieve from this inevitable conversation and to greet who is more than likely one of their comrades, come to check on him. And he knows his vision is still blurring, that his mind may yet be hallucinating due to the drugs or the implants—but even knowing this, he  _ recognizes _ the man who walks through the door. His gait and his hair are far too familiar—and when he speaks, Allelujah does not register the words but would recognize the voice anywhere.

The mug smashes to pieces on the floor, splashing his feet and calves with hot tea, but he does not care as he surges to his feet. He  _ wills _ his eyes to focus, begs his feet to carry him forward, because he knows this man, and he has thought him long dead but he is  _ here, _ standing mere feet from him, and he thought the euphoria he felt with his freedom was glorious but it pales in comparison to  _ this _ —

He asks after him, his voice high and desperate, and works hard to clear the white noise from his ears to hear Lockon’s response. His eyes have grown wide and he silently begs them to focus, because Lockon is  _ alive;  _ he watches his friend’s body language, hesitant to request a hug himself, but if Lockon gives even the slightest indication—

“I’m getting tired of that reaction.”

Allelujah stills, looking into his friend’s face, sure he must have misheard. He wants to ask, needs to know why Lockon is not stepping forward for a hug (or, at the very least, a friendly clap on the shoulder). He needs to know why his friend is not so happy to reunite as Allelujah is after so long—but as he stares at him, he reads only impatience in his features. And Lockon is his friend, but it is abundantly clear that right now, he wants nothing to do with him—and so he shrinks back, glancing to an impassive Tieria before muttering an apology to the room, looking down and away, trying not to let himself choke.

There’s a moment of awkward silence before Tieria snorts—“You haven’t changed a bit,” he says, in that same strange tone as before, and though Allelujah plays along and hopes it’s enough to pass for normal, he can hear a waver in his voice.  _ He hasn’t changed _ , and he thinks that Tieria might mean this as comfort, but didn’t he ever look down on him for his sub-par piloting, his efforts to spare the enemy pilots when he could? Didn’t Lockon ever jump to his defense, during those times, pointing out that no matter their methods, they’re all committed to eliminating war, right?

Lockon always backed him up during those tense moments after battles but now he is silent, leaning against the doorjamb with his arms crossed over his chest as he stares between the two of them. “Hey, uh,” he says when they’re finished, and Allelujah’s head snaps up; he wonders wildly whether he was just waiting for a better time to—“Sumeragi says your meeting can wait, if you want, but she sounded pretty eager to talk. You might want to hurry it along a bit, if you don’t want to upset her.”

He looks at Allelujah, something strange in his expression, until Allelujah realizes he is waiting for a response. “All right,” he says, belatedly, and Lockon stares at him for a moment longer, clearly debating whether to say something else. But in the end he only huffs, pushing himself off the doorjamb and letting himself out of the room without another word.

Allelujah stares after him, backing up to sit heavily again on the bench as his knees buckle beneath him. Lockon—he was  _ dead,  _ and this has been a constant in his life for the past four years. He has thought the rest of the crew dead, too—only allowing himself to hope, in rare moments, that they survived, that they would come to rescue him. And they are alive; this is wonderful and impossible and a near-miracle—but it has not been so impossible as Lockon’s reappearance on the Ptolemy.

Lockon is dead. Lockon  _ was _ dead, but he was in this room not ten seconds ago, looking about and not, apparently, caring one whit about the friends for whom he has always seemed to care so much. His hands are trembling, he finds, and he twists them together in his lap to try and still them. Is Lockon—disappointed with him, for losing that fight against Marie and her comrades? Angry that he allowed himself to be captured? Fearful that he might have given information to the government? Frustrated, even, that they expended the resources to rescue such a useless pilot?

He didn’t—he has never thought he would have to justify himself to an ever-forgiving Lockon, but he will, if he has to. Because he would never give up his friends’ secrets, and the battle against the GN-Xes was impossible, and if he wanted to save the solar reactor then there was nothing he could have done to save himself. But he cannot explain this to Lockon because Lockon is gone; he left this room after seeing Allelujah for the first time in four years without even a hint of the friendship they once shared.

His legs are burning and uncomfortably damp from the tea, and his hands are shaking even more as he thinks, as he tries to decide why Lockon’s opinion of him has fallen so much. After all, Allelujah thinks rather hysterically, the memory of his friends is all that has kept  _ him _ alive through surgeries and isolation and cruelty at the hands of a merciless government for so long.

“Allelujah?” Tieria asks, his voice nearly tentative and far closer than he was expecting. Allelujah jumps terribly, wiping at his eyes and looking up, and realizing in vague horror that his fingers have come away wet. Weeping is a sign of weakness—inexcusable, especially to Tieria, who would never  _ dream _ of doing such a thing himself.

Incredibly, Tieria says nothing about it; his frown deepens, it’s true, but Allelujah is starting to recognize concern in his expression, and he’s lacking the imperious stance he always took, back then.

He doesn’t know how to answer him, though; he hesitates before bowing his head again toward his knees. Tieria is silent for a moment longer before moving to sit. beside him on the bench, clasping his hands in his lap as he leans, trying to catch Allelujah’s attention. “I know—it’s been a shock, for all of us,” he says awkwardly, and Allelujah chokes. Lockon has acted like this toward Tieria and Setsuna? Toward  _ Feldt? _

“I don’t understand,” he says, tries not to sob, and Tieria is silent. “He—he’s not…“

“He’s not,” Tieria agrees as he chokes off into silence, sighing before leaning back against the wall. “But he’s our best option to pilot Cherudim. Even Miss Sumeragi agrees. It’s just something we’re going to have to get used to.”

Something seems  _ off, _ in this explanation, and Allelujah frowns, glancing up to Tieria’s face. It’s twisted in something like pain, and he realizes that even as much as Tieria has stayed the same in physical appearance, he seems almost like a new person, with a range of emotions Allelujah never would have expected of him, before.

“Why is he so—“ he struggles for words, glancing around the room as if to find help, before blurting out, his voice cracking—“Is he angry with me?”

“I doubt it,” Tieria says immediately, though a confused frown is growing across his face, as well. “He’s had that reaction to all of us—I suppose it would grow tiring, after a while.”

“But he was  _ dead, _ ” Allelujah insists, turning fully to Tieria as his voice rises—but his friend jerks, here, turning to stare at him with wide eyes.

“That isn’t—“ he falters, though he seems desperate enough to continue—“That man isn’t Lockon Stratos.”

Except—except of  _ course _ he is, because who else could he possibly be? Tieria has ever been the logical one, and surely he understands that he looks  _ exactly _ like their dead friend, but—“That isn’t Lockon,” Tieria says again, louder, as if desperate for him to understand. “He and Lockon—they’re genetic twins. Brothers. Setsuna recruited Lyle to pilot our new sniping unit.”

Allelujah stills, considering this—and realizes it’s marginally more comforting than what he’s assumed. This isn’t Lockon—Lockon has not grown to despise him over these past years; Lockon hasn’t forgotten his relationships with the crew—

But Lockon has not done these things because he is dead after all, and Allelujah feels his heart twisting in his chest, stalling his lungs, at this realization. For these precious few minutes, he has allowed himself to hope for a miracle, that somehow, Lockon survived Fallen Angels. But that is all gone now, and his identical twin has taken his place—and suddenly, as something like dread fills his gut, he realizes that he needs to be anywhere but where he is right now.

Lockon is dead, and his double is wandering the halls of the ship he should have called home. Though Allelujah is so desperately thankful to be back, he thinks this might be a little too much for him to handle. “Could you—show me to my room, please?” he asks, hates the way his voice wavers, but Tieria, again, says nothing about it; he only stands up silently, waiting for Allelujah to follow suit before walking out the door.

.

.

Allelujah spends an hour in the showers, that night, after a long talk with Miss Sumeragi and reunions with the rest of the crew. He scrubs at the grime and feelings of disgust that yet linger on his skin from the prison’s depths, hoping the near-scalding water will help ease his cramping muscles and distract him from the grief he’s yet reeling with. He has not felt clean in so long that he has forgotten what it feels like at all—and he pulls at his hair after its fourth shampooing, thinking that it’s far too long, before remembering that Lockon is no longer here to trim it for him.

The tears rise up in his throat, but he cannot cry—he  _ cannot— _ and so he eventually turns the shower off, reaching for a towel and rubbing at his face more roughly than necessary.

He dresses quickly (the uniform fits loosely, but he’s hopeful his ribs will stop jutting so much once he’s allowed to eat properly) and steps out of the showers, hoping to find an unclaimed toothbrush so he can start in on his mouth. But the sinks are not unoccupied, and he freezes as Lockon— _ Lyle, _ Tieria had called him—stands up from splashing his face, reaching for a towel. He jumps when he sees Allelujah in the mirror before turning quickly, blinking at him, clearly unsure of what to say.

This man isn’t Lockon. Allelujah is sure of this, and somehow, Lyle’s lack of familiarity is more comforting than the thought of Lockon growing to hate him. But it  _ hurts, _ to look into his friend’s face and see a stranger. He had hoped to avoid him, at least for a few days, while he attempts to get himself settled in and re-acclimated…but clearly that’s not going to be possible. It’s not a huge ship, after all, and they’re going to have to work together from now on.

Something is rising in his chest, something like the sobs he’s been trying to hold back all day. He swallows them down with difficulty, his eyes skittering around Lyle for several seconds before realizing that he should probably say something. 

_ This isn’t Lockon. _ But despite that, they’re going to be trusting each other with their lives on the battlefield—and he would be an awful person to snub the newest member of their crew.

“Earlier,” Allelujah starts, fumbling, and finds he has great difficulty meeting Lyle’s eyes as he attempts to continue, “Tieria told me, that you’re not your brother. I’m sorry for the mistake.”

Lyle’s eyes widen fractionally, and he blinks a couple of times before barking a laugh not unlike Lockon’s. “Like I said, everyone else said the same damn thing,” he says, his grin rather nastier than his brother’s ever was. 

Allelujah hesitates, wondering whether this means he’s still upset about it. “I’m sorry,” he offers again, because even if this isn’t Lockon (and this is something he’s going to have to actively accustom himself to), if there’s anything he can do to ease tension, he’ll do it gladly.

“Don’t worry about it,” Lyle says dismissively, waving a hand—and his grin fades to something a little less intimidating. “You’re looking better—looked like hell frozen over, in the mess. You feeling all right?”

It’s brusque, even if Lyle does seem sincere in his questioning—and Allelujah finds his nod isn’t as much as a lie as he thought it would be. “I’m all right,” he agrees, and Lyle snorts, grinning at him as he heads toward the bathroom door.

He pauses at the door, though, obviously thinking on something; Allelujah hesitates, unsure of what he wants. “I’m in the hangar tomorrow at seven,” Lyle says abruptly, his back still to Allelujah. “Tieria’s putting me through more simulations, if you wanna join—you’ll need to figure out your new Gundam too, yeah?”

He hesitates—Arios handled similarly to Kyrios in battle, with a few much-needed upgrades and better handling in the air. But he didn’t get a chance to properly inspect the cockpit; he supposes it couldn’t hurt to make sure.  Spending time getting to know Lyle and catching up with Tieria, too, probably wouldn’t be so bad. “Sure,” he says, and tries to ignore the awfully misplaced warmth that grows in his chest when Lyle glances over his shoulder with a grin, as if in approval, before letting himself out.


End file.
